Chapter 13
The cold air seeped in from the large windows of the Great Hall, bringing with it the gloomy feeling of the early morning. The atmosphere in the dining hall was heavy, as if every breath was being suffocated by invisible curses. Draco Malfoy sat silently at the familiar Slytherin table. The wooden chair was stiff, not comfortable enough to ease the pain from a restless sleep the night before.
The nightmare of screams still echoed in his head, the screams that tore apart the stillness of Malfoy Manor the night before. He couldn’t remember the face of the person, but the way they writhed and screamed under the Cruciatus Curse was unforgettable. That person had died, not because of his mistake, but his father’s. But that didn’t make Draco feel any better. The cold-blooded Malfoy family had raised him, but now it had become chains, binding his mind.
Draco lowered his head to the plate in front of him but didn’t touch it. Blaise and Theo sat beside him, but they didn’t speak. Everyone was silent. Pansy occasionally glanced at Draco, but he didn’t respond. The worried or curious glances only irritated him. The breakfast passed like a cold wind: tasteless, silent, just an empty wait.
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The whole day, Draco kept away from the crowd. He walked slowly to the library, where he thought there would be the quiet needed to calm the storm in his heart. The library door opened, revealing the vast space covered by the faint light of candles hanging overhead. The smell of old wood and faded books filled his nose, bringing a familiar but uncomfortable feeling.
Draco walked along the rows of tall bookshelves, his fingers brushing over the spines of worn-out books. He wasn’t looking for anything specific, just a feigned busyness to keep his mind from thinking about the images from the night before.
At the end of one row of shelves, his gaze stopped. Hermione Granger was sitting at a table not far away, her head bent over a thick book. The light shone on her face, making her features more defined. Hermione didn’t seem to notice his presence, or she chose to ignore him. Draco stood still, his eyes fixed on her every move, every small gesture: the way she ran her hand through her hair, how her eyes narrowed as she read a small passage, the way her quill tapped a rhythm on the table.
It wasn’t out of curiosity or special interest, but perhaps out of caution around her. The silence around them was like an invisible curtain, only broken by the sound of paper turning.
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Draco pulled a chair and sat at a nearby table. He took out a blank sheet of paper, the quill steady in his hand. Disjointed strokes appeared on the page, but the more he wrote, the slower his hand became. Memories from the night before flooded back, and the words no longer followed his intent.
The quill gently slid across the paper, not to write, but to draw. Draco didn’t know what he was drawing. The initial strokes were clumsy, vague, but they gradually took form. A curve, an angle, a few lines cutting across. He couldn’t explain why, but every stroke felt heavy, as if he were trying to convey something that couldn’t be named.
His hand stopped when he completed the last line. He stared at the drawing for a few seconds, emotionless, but some form of frustration welled up in him. “Nonsense,” he muttered, folding the paper and stuffing it between two books. Draco stood up, returning the book to its place, not bothering to look back.
The quiet of the library was the only thing that made him feel slightly better, even if just for a moment. But at the same time, it made him realize one thing: there was nothing truly quiet in his mind.
Draco left the library with his head heavier than when he entered. But still, this was the place he needed – at least for some peace.
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Draco Malfoy began to feel as if he was suffering from some kind of twisted illness. It seemed like she—Hermione Granger—was everywhere he went. Every day, every morning, every afternoon, there wasn’t a place in Hogwarts without a trace of her. He couldn’t explain it, but it kept happening. Every time he turned down a hallway, or entered a room, his eyes would meet her figure, always cold and focused. He thought he was just tired, but her appearances were too regular. It couldn’t just be coincidence, it couldn’t.
Damn it! He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Was Hermione following him? Or was he the one following her, without realizing it? Every time her eyes accidentally met his, Draco felt like some kind of spell was happening. Each time he saw her, a discomfort filled his chest, as if something was wrong, but he couldn’t pinpoint what.
Damn it, he had to stop thinking about her. Draco shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away. But it was impossible. She was everywhere, and it wasn’t just that she was there. It wasn’t just coincidence, or just random encounters. It was like a presence he couldn’t deny. As if an invisible force was pulling him to notice her, no matter when, no matter where.
Once, while walking through a quiet hallway, Draco noticed her standing there, silently, as if waiting for someone. He didn’t know if she had noticed him, but her presence echoed in his mind. She stood there, holding a book, not seeming in any hurry. Not seeming to notice him. But then she turned back, and her eyes seemed to accidentally meet his. Damn, Draco felt frozen in place.
That sensation kept him tangled in the confusing questions in his mind. Was she—was she following him? Was she trying to figure him out? Or was he the one following her? Draco wasn’t sure anymore. This ambiguity was driving him mad.
He wasn’t the type to worry about such vague things. But Hermione—she made him unable to think about anything else but wanting to know. Though he wouldn’t admit it, a part of him couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was something strange. Her presence made Draco lose control over his emotions. What seemed like chance encounters, each time left him feeling like some unseen force was leading him into the same trap.
Why her? Why could Hermione Granger make Draco feel like this? How many times in a day did he pass classrooms, and whenever he stepped into a hallway, she was there, almost waiting for him? But was she really waiting for him? Or was she just showing up? Fuck, he hated it.
The fear and doubt in him were growing. He began to feel like something was wrong. Could all these encounters just be coincidence? Or was she really following him, even controlling things that he didn’t realize?
That feeling kept nagging at Draco’s mind, making him unable to break free. Every time he saw Hermione, he felt like he was trapped in a spiraling loop with no way out. These thoughts, though he tried to dismiss them, still haunted him. Each time he saw her, the tension enveloped him, as if some invisible connection between them couldn’t be broken.
Draco clenched his fists, frustration swelling in his chest. “Fuck, you’re crazy, Draco,” he muttered under his breath, feeling like something was wrong in his head. He bit his lip, trying to suppress the chaotic thoughts, but the more he tried, the more they clung to him.